


Small Doses

by vestigia6flamea9ampora



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Batjokes, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, But Mostly Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Vigilante John, Romance, Suicide Attempt, Tragic Romance, Two threads in the same stitch, Vigilante Joker (DCU), Vigilante Route (Telltale), fluff if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigia6flamea9ampora/pseuds/vestigia6flamea9ampora
Summary: Bruce visits John in Arkham every once in a while.Often enough to remind him he’s alive. Not often or long enough to build any sort of toxic attachment.Or to provide any real escape from the pressing loneliness of Bruce’s life.(Post vigilante route, but doesn’t make too many references to Joker or the events of the game.)
Relationships: Batman/Joker, John Doe/Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	Small Doses

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1 of 2! Heavily inspired (obviously once you’ve read it) by Drawn to the Blood by Sufjan Stevens. I think it encapsulates their relationship and the tragedy of it perfectly. Also since it must be said: I do not own or in any way have rights to any characters mentioned in this fanfiction as they are not my creations and are the property of DC. Thank you and I hope you enjoy reading!

_i’m drawn to the blood, the flight of a one winged dove_  
Bruce carries a briefcase with nothing in it except a bar of chocolate and a ziploc bag full of stemless roses. It’s November and the air on the island smells like a cold, wet dog, with hints of salt and wood and thin skipper metal. He told himself he wouldn’t cry on the ferry ride over and he didn’t. Small victories, Bruce.  
It’s Alfred’s voice, because of course it is. He’s an undying sentinel in the confines of Bruce’s conscience.  
 _How? How did this happen?_  
He’s wearing a black turtleneck and glasses. Long straight pants and a gray blazer. He feels stupid, and knows he probably looks stupid too. But he can’t wear anything above his wrist anymore and fuck Babs, at least I didn’t wear argyle socks and a sweatervest like a true prep would.  
 _The strength of his arm-_  
Arkham smells like a particularly bloody hospital, and he missed it so much. But now, surrounded by staff to escort him, in plainclothes and not scrubs, Bruce feels like such an outsider that it makes his skin crawl and his arms itch. He feels like a rich, white missionary in the depths of a jungle; seeing the natives in what they feel is simple peace and carefree life. Feeling the desire and guilt and pity of wishing for a lesser birthright; wishing to be indigenous. By the time he reaches John’s door, his mind is blank with the hum of the fluorescent lights and the hot wet smell of the jungle, the grassy smell of tigers and the screaming calls of elusive birds.  
 _My lover caught me off guard_  
John grabs him once the door is opened and shut again behind him. He jolts to attention and returns to his world as the birds fly from the tall trees in alarm.  
 _How? Head of a rabbit_  
John has his cheek pressed against Bruce’s chest, and the tears threaten to come in with the rainforest wind. It’s been so long since he felt solid. Since he felt real. Part of him was surprised John hadn’t gone to touch him and passed right through, like he was made of nothing at all. Vapor in a crystal case, shaped like a man.  
 _How? Head of a rabbit_  
John thinks the stemless roses are cute. He sticks his nose into them and sniffs with a grin that is too wide and too long and too bright. Bruce has busied himself with trying to soak in the presence of his love without looking at him at all.  
 _For my prayer has always been love_  
Bruce lays a hand on the back of John’s neck, gently petting the scruff that leads up the nape of his neck.  
John giggles and claps his hands on the side of Bruce’s face, forcing their eyes to meet.  
“How ya been, Brucie? Miss me at all?”  
The blue in the window is uninterrupted and darkening slowly. He tries to stop both the memories of his childhood and his recent…… incident, but he can only stave off one.  
 _What did I do_  
Bruce is taken back to his sanguine night in the cave. Alfred hadn’t yet settled into his grave and Bruce was soaked in the black water where the Batwing once was. Red was pouring and pouring and it felt as though iron and salt were being exchanged as his vision blurred. Before everything went black he wondered if sharks could make their way into the Gotham river.  
 _to deserve this?_  
He doesn’t tell John that Alfred died or that he tried to off himself once he realized Alfred was gone, Batman was done, and everyone he loved was dead or in some kind of prison. Or hated him, or maybe both. Hell, why not all?  
 _With blood on my sleeve_  
But he does begin to cry now, fully, and his tears roll over John’s pale thumbs and into the crook of his hand, down to his wrist. A soft kiss is pressed to his lips and the weight pressing onto his shoulders takes shape. In the blur of his watery vision, John seems like he’s made of light, like an angel carved out of soap.

_Delilah, avenge my grief_


End file.
